


Empire of Dirt

by Xandrad



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Past Violence, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 10:43:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2770094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xandrad/pseuds/Xandrad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Magnus struggles with being alone. He is driven to the edge many months after being cast out of Dethklok. </p>
<p>Mentions of relationships between Magnus and Dethklok band members. Written to the song "Hurt" by Nine Inch Nails. </p>
<p>(Thank you to dynamesvirtue.tumblr.com for being my beta.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empire of Dirt

The tips of Magnus’ long calloused fingers were shredded from worry. Red cracks and spots formed around the edges of his fingernails: which were now bitten back so that the nerves were exposed. He continued to gnaw on them after he’d berated himself to stop.The inside of his mouth was in a similar state, the tender flesh of his cheeks chewed away from anxiety. It was too hot in here, the man bathed in sweat, humidity pressing in from all sides. Angry at his inability to control himself and his environment, the ex-Dethklok member swore into the darkness. He forced himself from his bed, swollen eyes drifted to the blaring red numbers on the digital clock.

_3:34AM._

Enough was enough. He’d held off this long, and sleep still wasn’t coming. He needed it to stop. The voices haranguing within that constantly chittered like a broken record. The stressed guitarist hadn’t had a drink in weeks. The last time he’d had one, it nearly ended in criminal charges.  Some asshole gave him lip after he’d played at a dive bar. 

The main places that would hire him now tended to be rough establishments, where his infamy was an attraction to the clientele. Unfortunately, those same people were often fans of Dethklok and sometimes it went south. Because of this, he’d found it impossible to get on stage without a nip of liquid courage since he’d been kicked out. Usually, that nip turned into a bottle. The fucker thought it would be really funny to bring up Dethklok as Magnus (now loaded on whiskey) was packing his gear into his car.

_“Hey Hammerfag, your gig was so shit, my fling fucking left. Douchebag! I was gon-gonna get laid. You’re nothing without Dethklok, you know that? Hahaha-”_

**Bam.** The asshole’s face met the concrete after a king hit. The next thing Magnus knew, the asshole’s friends were on top of him. It felt all too familiar. The older man knew they were hitting him, but he couldn’t feel anything. The men argued about calling the cops, but the asshole he’d put down shirked it off like it was nothing.

_“Fuck it, I’m holdin’. Plus I wanna get laid, just leave this peice of shit here. He’s not worth fuckin’ nothin’.”_

They’d spat on the battered man and left. Magnus had sat next to his car for ten minutes, disgusted with himself at how much he wished one of those assholes had landed a lethal hit. No-one stopped, but he was glad of that. He’d woken up the next day and resolved alcohol and other drugs weren’t doing him any favours right now, and stayed clean for his next lot of work.

Then he stopped getting regular gigs. The tabloids had grown tired of the dramatic story of his departure from Dethklok, and it became difficult for him to convince anyone to hire him. He was behind on rent now, every morning a rush of anxiety as he waited for the landlord to arrive with an eviction notice. He’d gotten so desperate, he’d considered busking just to get by. He was a professional fucking guitarist, he wasn’t going to resort to playing for dollars. Then again, It was better than the alternative that haunted his mind. He was terrorised daily with flashes of flesh and blood and the dim descent into black that would end it all.

Magnus sighed and shook himself out of those thoughts. He pulled open a cupboard containing an out of date can of SPAM, instant noodles and one bottle of cheap vodka. He swelled with anger at how much it reminded him of growing up, going to the fridge with a hungry belly to find bare bones and alcohol. Always alcohol.

Whatever. He was tired of this shit. He just needed a break.

Magnus grabbed the bottle. He walked to his bag and fished out a tobacco pouch. The weary musician eyed his guitar. Usually he’d enjoy playing it as he sat and watched the city outside. Not tonight. After rolling a smoke, he moved to the window and nestled into the crook, one leg hanging out. He liked this apartment, even if it was in an awful part of town where sirens went all night.

The guitarist lit his smoke, his body easing as a cloud filled his throat and chest. As he exhaled, the white billowed and grew, enlarged by his hot breath hitting cold air. He drew in and out a few more times as his fingers toyed with the lid of the vodka. The air was cool on his bare chest, a welcome feeling with how muggy the night was. Maybe he just needed a smoke, and he’d calm down enough to sleep. Maybe he could wear himself out counting the lights of all the buildings on his street. Maybe he could lay down in the dark, alone, and not stare at the roof until the sun came up, fearful of the dreams filled with his ex-bandmates dead faces...

Magnus twisted the lid off.

The tang hit his tongue and the liquor filled his throat as he tipped the bottle back. He pulled it from his mouth with a pop and licked the heat from the corners of his lips. The vodka burned the inside of his mouth he’d gnawed away and stang the torn flesh around his fingernails. The silver fox smiled at the feeling, the bite of pain roused embers within him. Finally, something other than anger and numbness. He sighed as heat came to his cheeks and settled in his gut. He waited.

When he stopped,  _they were there._

He grit his teeth as his nightmares resurfaced in his waking life. Why couldn’t he shake this bullshit? He had always liked alone time, but he’d spent nearly a whole year with Dethklok; and even though it had been many months since they’d parted ways, he was not used to the quiet. He hated to think about them, but right now, those fuckers weren’t leaving him alone. The scorned guitarist needed to remember things other than how they’d hurt him, or he’d have the same recycled nightmare fuel burned into his mind. He closed his eyes and threw back a long drink, fighting his body’s resistance to the burn in his oesophagus. His fingers drummed a rhythm to the last song they’d been playing when it turned bad,and he faded into memories. 

Magnus remembered Nathan mumbling lyric ideas, or yelling at Murderface to stop destroying things. He and Nathan butted heads over creative differences, but he got along with Nathan the best, the vocalist’s drive to deliver brutal music being high on Magnus's values. Magnus hated to admit that he missed Pickles tapping away on any surface he could find. The snarky ginger was always happy to share a drink with Magnus. And of course he obliged, even on days when fucker was a brat and he wanted to punch him. Pickles had been the main reason Magnus joined Dethklok, the drummer’s impressive past experience drew Magnus in, attracted to his knack for success. Murderface was a pain in his ass, but Magnus appreciated that the kid sided with him a lot (even if it was just to piss the others off), and followed him around, trying to act tough to impress him. He tried not to treat him like crap, going off at the others when they did. Except when it came to his shit bass playing - then he’d tear him a new one. And Skwisgaar…

Magnus took another long drink and a hard drag on his tailor-made.

The press didn’t know how close Dethklok really were. They didn’t need to know. A bunch of guys living together, touring together, making music together, feeling invincible and fueled to the teeth on drugs; well, there’d been encounters. Especially between himself and the ethereal Swede, fastest guitar player Magnus had ever met. Magnus was enthralled with Skwisgaar from the moment he saw him, and fell even harder when he heard him play. He wasn’t as good as Magnus, he needed more experience, but he was certainly the fastest.

Magnus swallowed hard as he ran his finger over his own mouth, plagued by memories of mouths clashing and hands wandering. He found himself drawn to the flame of desire, hungry for company. There’d been nights where separately or together, the boys had gotten stupid and fooled around. Nothing serious. Not like what he’d had with Skwisgaar.

As Magnus took another sip, he realised he was lonely. He wanted their company, even if whoever he was with was out of their mind. That was the only way it happened anyway. The band never talked about it. It ‘didn’t happen’. They were all in denial and whenever any of them hinted at it outside of being intoxicated, it was just some big joke. Pickles had tried a few times. He was braver than the rest in this capacity, but even he brushed it off a joke in the end.

The bitter old man grunted in disgust at these thoughts. What the  fuck had he expected from a bunch of boys, still reveling in immaturity?  Magnus drew in the last of his smoke and flicked the butt into the darkness of the night while he huffed the remainder out. He felt empty now that it was finished. He tried to ignore the loneliness that hung over him, but instead it consumed him.

This thorn in particular was what hurt the most. The guitarist felt deeply ashamed of the intimacy he’d shared with those monsters. What was worse is how badly he wanted it back.

Magnus scrunched his eyes hard as the alcohol sunk into his soul. He wanted to feel good. He resigned to the intoxication, lying to himself that he didn’t hate them.

The gestalt of memories slugged him in the head; the weeks that lead up to the catalyst, Magnus had been getting more and more irritated.  As they’d been gaining fame, the boys had been partying harder. Their practices getting sloppier and rarer. The boys started sleeping all day, too fucking lazy to get their shit together for work. He became depressed, not realising it at the time, but this lifestyle was not what he wanted from a band. He cut himself away from it, trying to focus on the music, and that’s when things changed. Magnus could feel his band mates withdrawing from him, leaving him out of things, talking about him behind his back.

A few nights before it went sideways, Magnus had offered to jam with them, not practice, just hang out. The cold bastards had told him they were tired. Later, Magnus heard them go out, without him, and return around 1:00AM. The older man had heard the voices of girls and music, and had been so ropeable, he’d stormed out to tell them he was _“_ _trying to fucking sleep_ _”_. They just laughed at him and told him to “ _chill out_ ”. Magnus had lost it then, yelling at them to grow the hell up and get their acts together. The girls split and they spent the next hour raging, mainly Nathan and him in each other’s faces, spilling out all the frustration they’d had towards each other, Murderface and Pickles by Nathan's side to sling insults. Skwisgaar had vanished early in the piece, like a Goddamn coward.

After that, he felt like he had as an adolescent, being ignored and bullied in a hostile environment. Murderface went silent where he’d usually pipe up, or instead some smart ass remark against Magnus. Pickles stopped drinking with him and avoided him, not joking around anymore.  Nathan stopped sharing lyrics with him and was stoic toward him like he was a regular jackoff. Skwisgaar locked him out of his room and wouldn’t play guitar with him. Magnus had tried to confront Skwisgaar about it, but the Swede had just gone silent and played his guitar like Magnus wasn’t there. Even after what they’d shared, he was just trash to them.

Magnus didn’t even realise his cheeks were wet until the tears ran down his neck.

The guitarist drowned his ache in more drink, until he hit that sweet point where everything became soft.  He felt himself leaning too far out the window. Despite how shit he felt, he wasn’t going to end it now. Magnus dragged himself inside the apartment, wobbled to the floor and leaned against the windowsill, the room swimming now.

As his eyes fluttered shut, he saw his knife in his hand. He watched it sink into Nathan’s back, blood pissing over his fingers. He watched as every punch came towards him again, the hate in Nathan’s face worse that the belting.

He trembled as he played it in reverse. He imagined himself staying calm when Nathan called him crazy. He wished Nathan hadn’t said it, like the fuckers who’d teased him his whole life. Magnus imagined the knife never came out of it’s sheath. He wished he’d just told them to fuck off and had gone for a walk to cool down, came back later to sort things out.

Magnus tried to ignore the memory of ripping up Nathan’s lyric book through blurred vision, the words they’d made together now in shreds. Magnus remembered his haggard wheezing as he ruined their livelihoods to drown the pain of Nathan’s beating and betrayal. He tried to erase smashing the hell out of Pickles drum kit with Murderface’s guitar. 

Magnus froze on the moment he was holding Skwisgaar’s guitar above his head.

He remembered laying next to Skwisgaar in a drunken, naked state. The Swede smiling at him through the dark. His chest thudded and filled with agony. Magnus drank deeper as he felt the guilt rage like a flash flood inside him.

Magnus came face-to-face with his regret over that moment, the depth of his intoxication made him feel like he was standing on a cliff, ready to tip over the edge.

What if… he told them he was sorry?

_Maybe they would take him back._

Magnus reached up to stall the rush of tears and his fingers brushed his damaged eye socket, feeling the scar still tender there. He fumed as he remembered Nathan’s hands destroying him as they other’s watched on like useless children. His mind flashed with the words he’d torn into the walls of their home with his bloody hands.

Magnus roared in pain, and slammed his fist into the floor with the same force as he’d torn apart Mordhaus. He raised the bottle, just as he had Skwisgaar’s guitar and brought it down like a hammer. 

The sound was more glorious than any of the son-of-a-bitch’s solo’s could ever be.

Shards and vodka flew everywhere. The impact cut his palm, the alcohol instantly sterilized the wound. Magnus was too to care about the pain, enraged that he’d sunk so low as to think about apologising to them. They were the monsters. They’d ruined his life after he given himself to them completely.

The angry old man clambered to his feet and stared at his reflection in the window, hair drenched in sweat, eyes bloodshot. He grimaced as he stared himself, his one pale iris only furthering his rage.

The mantra twisted up inside him. Magnus promised himself this was the last time he spent wallowing in the past. He’d made his decision, forged his path, and he was never going to hate himself for that choice again.

From now on, the only thoughts he’d spend on Dethklok would be to pay them in kind for abandoning him. His head was all clear, but for a familiar rhythm that made his fingers itch.   
  
Magnus crawled to his guitar and began to play and smiled to himself. As he plucked, fingers stinging, blood pooled and turned the strings dark. The guitarist snickered, then broke into a wild laugh, grateful how clear everything was now. 

_Revenge was coming._


End file.
